


Max Ernst

by velvetglove



Category: Smallville
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-06
Updated: 2003-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetglove/pseuds/velvetglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex gives Clark an art lesson.</p><p>Originally posted to Live Journal on 01/06/03. Written for Thamiris' and LaT's Rub It Until It Breaks frottage challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Max Ernst

_Excerpt from Clark Kent's research paper_ : 

Frottage is the placing of paper (or sometimes canvas) against another surface then rubbing it with pencil, charcoal, or paint to transfer an impression of the underlying texture. Frottage is associated with the German artist Max Ernst, who is credited with inventing the technique... 

* * *

( _extra credit assignment sheet from Mrs. Larimore_ ' _s 3rd period art history class_ ) 

Art History: Belle Epoque to Contemporary Era

Extra Credit Assignment: Complete an artwork using a technique strongly associated with one of the artists covered this semester and write a brief research paper (at least one page in length) describing the artist's use of this technique, giving specific examples. 

Suggestions:  
-Picasso/cubism  
-Sargent/portraiture  
-Ernst/frottage  
-Pollock/action painting 

You may use one of the above or choose any artist/technique discussed in class. 

Grading:  
-50% appropriate use of technique. Artistic skill is _not_ being graded. -50% research paper. 

Maximum extra credit: 30 points. 

* * *

Two days before final extra-credit projects are due, Clark finds himself at the cemetery, crouched before the Langs' double gravestone, rubbing a sheet of vellum with a black Conte crayon. Frottage. He always thought it meant something...sexy, but apparently it just means gravestone rubbings. So...Langs, gravestone, frottage. It might be artistic to rub someone else's grave, too, one of the strangers by Lana's parents, maybe at an angle across the Lang impression. Clark feels funny about sitting on a stranger's grave; even though he never knew the Langs, he feels like it's all right for him to squat over their...moldering bodies (ugh) because he's friends with Lana and he's heard her talking to them so many times he feels like he knows them. Well, at least he knows Lana's _version_ of her parents. She was only three when they died, after all--how well could she have possibly known them? 

Someone named Dorothy Solomon (1912-1987) has curlicues carved into her stone that would look pretty in relief; Clark tries to remember if he knows any Solomons and comes up empty-handed. Maybe that's better, actually; not knowing the person he's walking over. 

Clark moves back and forth between the graves, alternating black and red crayon, trying different angles. Several sheets of paper later, Clark wouldn't call the results art, exactly, but at least his efforts show that he understands the _technique_. He can write the paper on Max Ernst tonight or tomorrow and hand the whole thing in by Friday. 

It's a pretty day: blue sky, not too cold, trees still leafy though turning color. Rather than cut down through the pastures and cornfields behind the cemetery, Clark decides to take the front road, where the slight downhill slope provides what passes for a view in Kansas: gradations of cloudless cobalt over a shallow valley full of leaves in orange, red and gold. 

He's in no hurry to get home; there's always time enough to do his chores. He's enjoying the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind, bursts of birdsong, and a high-pitched whine like the engine of a very fast car coming closer and closer... 

Lex. He's driving the Porsche today. Clark doesn't need to actually see the car to know that; he's learned the sound signatures of each engine, though he'll never admit that to anyone. It seems a bit too stalkerish. 

Even though he knows Lex can't hurt him if he hits him, it's still nerve-wracking to hear the car coming closer and closer _behind_ him, unseen. Clark can't help but shiver at the scream of well-oiled metal pistoning and sparking fire, but he's not going to turn around and look apprehensive and geeky. For that matter, he's not going to look eager, either. 

The car whips past him on the left, gravel spattering his shins and a swirl of hot grit making him squint. Flare of red as Lex brakes emphatically and abruptly about 50 yards ahead of Clark, the car fishtailing onto the shoulder in a hail of loose gravel and a cloud of dust. 

Lex steps out of the car, grinning, moving with his usual languid grace; his apparent lack of urgency belying the fact that he does move very quickly--he's just precise, no wasted motion. He leans against the side of the Porsche with his arms crossed over his chest. 

Clark is not going to _run_ to Lex, but he concedes an increase in his pace. "Hey, Lex," he says, and his smile cannot be suppressed no matter how much he wants to look cool and detached. 

"Clark!" Lex uncrosses his arms, shoves his hands in his pockets, and shifts upright, moving from foot to foot. "What are you doing out here?" 

"Frottage," Clark says. 

He's never seen Lex look so surprised. _Really_ surprised. 

"Frottage?" Lex's voice sounds...chipped. Clark frowns. Did he pronounce it wrong? 

Clark begins to explain. "For extra credit." 

Lex looks like someone just informed him that he's won every prize, every contest, and every battle, forever and ever, amen. "You're practicing _frottage_. For _extra credit_. And what...inspired educator gave you this assignment? Now that the lovely Ms. Atkins is gone, I have to wonder who would dare..." 

"Mrs. Larimore. Art History. The assignment is worth 30 points so long as our technique is good." 

"My god, Clark," Lex laughs, "Good technique is worth a _hell_ of a lot more than that." He opens the driver's side door, looks at Clark over the roof of the car, still laughing. "Ahh...We're talking gravestone rubbings, aren't we? Get in." 

Clark shoves his backpack into the narrow space behind the seat. "What did you think I meant, Lex?" 

As they start to roll, Lex is still shaking his head and laughing to himself. "Oh, Clark...I was just thinking of--" Another burst of laughter. "I just had this image..." Lex is still loving his private joke, and it's beginning to make Clark feel a little defensive. "Put it this way: for a moment, I couldn't imagine anything more _stimulating_ than being in your Art History class this afternoon." 

Burning red blush. He knew it. Mrs. Larimore had refused to treat it like a legitimate question, but Clark _knew_ he'd heard something about frottage that had nothing to do with Max Ernst or rubbing with crayons. "It _does_ mean something sexy, doesn't it?" 

"Yes, of course, Clark. Have you ever known me to get this much enjoyment out of something that _wasn't_ sexy?" Lex smiles, eyes bright with mirth. 

"So what does it mean?" 

"Think, Clark. What are you doing with the paper and charcoal, or whatever it is you've got there?" 

"Rubbing." And then it dawns on him. God, he's such an idiot sometimes. Clark is hit with yet another wave of flushing heat. 

"Yes. Exactly." Lex looks very pleased with himself, with the entire situation. Sometimes Lex enjoys it a little _too_ much when Clark exposes his naivete. 

"And I suppose this is something everyone outside of Smallville knows about, and all the kids in Metropolis have already gotten bored with it by the time they're in junior high, right?" Clark is going to start pouting any moment now, especially if Lex doesn't stop looking so amused. 

"No one _ever_ grows out of wanting to rub against other bodies, Clark. Haven't you figured that one out yet?" 

Clark has had enough. "Cut it out, Lex; I mean it. I'm tired of you making fun of me. You can just let me out here." 

Lex pulls the car over immediately, but shuts off the engine. "Clark--" He puts a hand on Clark's arm, but Clark shakes it off. 

"Just leave me alone, Lex." Clark grabs his backpack, pushes open the car door, and gets out. 

Lex gets out, too. "Clark," he says. "Please. I'm sorry." He's standing inside the open door, arms stretched across the roof toward Clark, palms turned up, beseeching. "I shouldn't laugh at you. It's not a common term; it's not like you would have known it. I'm being a jerk." 

Clark considers him, gauges his sincerity through narrowed eyes. "You're really sorry?" 

"Yes. Really. Look, what can I do to prove it?" Flash of teeth, eyes shining silver-blue. 

Clark walks around the front of the car, Lex's eyes on him the entire time. Lex leans back against the side of the car and Clark walks right up to him, drops his backpack in the dust, and says, "Show me." 

Lex swallows, mouth looking fragile, like he's about to say something other than what comes out next. "Show you _what_ , Clark?" 

Clark brackets Lex between his arms. "Show me frottage, Lex. Show me what you thought I was doing for my extra credit." 

Is Lex...shaking? Clark gets a glimpse of pink tongue darting out to make a nervous pass over Lex's scarred mouth. Lex's voice has gone low and rough as he says, "All right, Clark. I'll show you." 

And just like that, they've switched places, Clark with his back to the car, Lex leaning in between his thighs and kissing him with a mouth that's both hard and soft, hot and tangy like blood. Clark feels something akin to panic, and his tongue curls shyly in the back of his mouth, but Lex grasps him by the throat, just below his jaw, and kisses him insistently, his tongue seeking Clark's; and with the first slick sweep, Clark goes weak in the knees, slumping back against the Porsche at the same time his mouth collides with Lex's with a hard knock of teeth. Distantly, he hears Lex laughing at him, but he doesn't care anymore; Lex can laugh at him all day long if he'll just keep kissing him like this. 

Lex takes his mouth away, grinning. He _is_ arrogant, Clark thinks; everyone is so right about that. But--god--he's...amazing. "Can you stand on your own?" Lex asks, his voice deep as dark chocolate. He doesn't wait for an answer, but drops down onto his knees in the gravel, hands braced against Clark's hips. "I don't think this is _technically_ frottage," he says, "but you'll have to check the encyclopedia definition yourself." 

The sensation of heat is intense and liquid, napalm against his cock through the filter of his jeans. Clark's head falls back against the roof of the car with a loud bonk. 

"Clark? You okay?" 

"Don't stop, Lex." Clark can't keep the pleading edge out of his voice. 

Lex's hot breath is back, now accompanied by teeth that span and scrape along the hardening length of his cock. Clark moans, sounding pitiful but so aroused; his hands flutter nervously at Lex's shoulders. "Touch me," Lex mutters, applying the flat of his tongue along with moist breath through the denim over the head of Clark's cock. "Don't be afraid to touch me, Clark." 

Once given permission, Clark's big hands clamp onto Lex's head, one sliding down to the back of his neck, the other cradling the curve of Lex's skull, centered over the prominent bump at his occiput (extra credit assignment, human anatomy, biology class). 

Moist heat bathing his cock. He can't tell how much of the wet he's feeling is from him, how much due to Lex's teasing mouth. "Please, Lex," he whimpers, hoping for more of the same. Abruptly, Lex stands, sliding up Clark's body, which is sexy enough on its own, but then he feels Lex's hard cock against his own through their pants, and he's groaning into Lex's mouth, frightened by what they're doing, and also afraid it might end too soon. 

Lex drops kisses along his jaw, down his throat, while undoing Clark's belt buckle. Lex's hard hand is flat against his belly then moves feather-light to the fly of his boxers, reaching in to wrap around his cock and draw it out. The fact that Lex is the first person to ever touch him like this--and that his cock is being touched at all--elicits a wail that makes Lex moan in response. "God, you're--hot, Clark," he murmurs into the hollow of Clark's throat. 

Still holding Clark's cock with one hand, Lex uses the other to yank up Clark's t-shirt, holding it bunched across his chest at the level of his armpits, then bends to suck each nipple in turn, causing Clark to blurt out incoherent endearments between frantic yelps. 

Lex steps back, letting go of Clark's cock and smoothing Clark's t-shirt back down over his hard belly. "I'd be remiss if I kept doing this, Clark." 

"Wh-what?" Clark's got the fevered eyes of a martyr, so turned on, volatile like a dangerous drunk. Lex can't keep _stopping_ things or Clark will go crazy. 

"You asked for frottage, and I'm muddying the waters with these...other activities." He dips in and swipes a long lick across Clark's parted lips, smiling when Clark arches to meet him. "We're going to make sure you get a pure frottage experience." Another kiss, as Lex slides his hands around to Clark's ass, sliding them in under the waistband of his jeans but still over his boxers. "Now you kiss me, Clark. Kiss me the way you think I'll like it." 

Clark's hands come up Lex's back, one resting at the bottom of his ribcage, the other continuing up to the nape of his neck. Clark does know what Lex likes: busy, slippery tongue and wet that's just short of sloppy. God, he's _sweet_. Lex reaches deeper, cups Clark's ass with one hand, holds his waist with the other, and does a slow, deliberate, rocking tilt, pelvis-to-pelvis, rubbing hard cocks together through the thin, soft wool of his pants. Clark _yells_ in his mouth, but recovers by the second stroke, and in the meantime has slipped his hand up the front of Lex's shirt to pinch a nipple with perfect, breath-taking cruelty. 

They thrust against one another, long strokes, pushing hard enough that Clark is certain he could describe the pattern of veins on Lex's cock, set a rhythm by the pulse in the head. He has Lex tight against his chest, reaching around to hold onto his shoulder blades. Lex's face is pressed into the crook of his neck, that hot, moist breath burning his throat. "Lex, Lex...I don't know how much longer..." 

"Don't worry, Clark. Don't wait. Come for me whenever you're ready." He increases the speed of his thrusts to match the tempo of Clark's panting breath. God, Clark feels so _good_ , smells so _good_ ; they smell fucking fabulous together, and these pants aren't a lost cause; they're a trophy. 

Clark is begging, "Lex? Lex?" and shudders hard before going still and silent, then splatters the front of Lex's trousers with his come, and sobs out sad, ragged laughter. Head back, eyes opaque, so beautiful. 

Clark's face--that's so much more, so much hotter than his fantasies. "Fuck--Clark!" Lex leans into him, keeps pushing, comes in his pants for the first time since age fifteen. He finds Clark's mouth and kisses him through the last of his spasms. 

Lex slumps against Clark's chest, breathing hard. Clark's hands pet his head protectively. "Jesus, Clark. You're incredible." It occurs to Lex that they're standing on the shoulder of a high-traffic rural road--not the best place for undeniably gay behavior--and he makes himself move out of the embrace, then helps Clark put himself back together. 

"Yeah? Thanks! Um, you, too, Lex," Clark says, "That was amazing...That was..." 

"Educational?" Lex offers. His smirking half-smile is oddly tender as he strokes Clark's face. "Because the point of this whole exercise was to make sure you understand frottage, after all." 

"Hmm, yes, rubbing." He leans forward and bites Lex's lower lip, not too hard. "I do think I've got it, Lex. So, you know, _thanks_." 

"Not a problem, Clark. You know how much importance I place on the arts." Lex fishes his keys out of his coat pocket and grimaces as his pants, already clammy, stick to his skin. 

Clark tosses his backpack inside the Porsche, moves around to the passenger door. "Speaking of the arts, Lex, can you get some better CDs? 'Cause the ones you have really suck." 

"What? You hate my music? Fine, Clark; just for that, we're going to listen to _Von Ray_ all the way to your house." 

Lex starts the engine and pulls back onto the pavement, the song stylings of Von Ray pouring out the open car windows and drowning out the birdsong. As the car picks up speed, a handful of silvery discs sail out the passenger window and are lost in the long grass. 


End file.
